Love Her Wilde

Not So Welcome Home: Dylan

The only things I wanted to do when I got home from the airport were shower and sleep. Shayne and I had grabbed McDonald's on the way home and shit-talked Asher's train-wreck of a girlfriend the whole way home. Mostly Shayne shit-talked. I just kind of listened.

I understood why she was upset, one hundred percent. Brock had cheated on me Lord knew how many times, but the difference between her and I? I never went for the other girls. I was pretty confident in the fact that they had no idea I existed, because Brock was very good at manipulating situations to his benefit. I'm sure I was the crazy ex, or the girl who just couldn't take a hint, or I was stalking him, or yadda yadda. It didn't matter. You can't blame someone who got fooled just as badly as you did.

However: Bridget had every right to blame me. I knew she existed. I knew they were together, and I still went forward. I couldn't blame her for wanting to rip my head off, though good luck to her if she tried. Asher never implicitly said they weren't together. He said that he wasn't sure, and, in the moment, that was good enough for me. But now, standing under the scalding hot water in my shower, I felt guilty about it all, and guilt wasn't an emotion I handled well.

After toweling off, I slipped into my favorite pajamas: a gothic red velvet set, and instantly climbed into bed, bottle of Merlot tucked in beside me. I was clicking through TV channels, but nothing was resonating, so I turned on an old season of Drag Race and let myself get lost in their drama, telling myself someday, I would get Shayne to audition for that show. I dug out my laptop and answered a few messages, collected some tips for photos I'd posted on my Hawaii excursion, and shortly fell asleep, computer still in my lap, drag queens still dancing on my television.

It felt like mere minutes before I was awoken by the shrill ring of my phone. It was Shayne, and he was already on one. I was supposed to meet him so that we could head to Buffalo Grove, the suburb in which our father lived. He'd been watching my baby since we left for Hawaii, and I missed him, both my dad and my baby. I forced myself out of bed and into a pair of jeans and a hoodie. I started some coffee, threw on the bare minimum of make-up, and headed out the door, Shayne yelling at me on speakerphone the entire time.

"How are you always late?" Shayne asked from the other end of the phone. "I swear to God, you will be late for your own fucking funeral."

"Shut the hell up," I laughed. "We're going to Dad's. It's not like there's a set time."

"I have to work tonight. I would like a little time to hang out, alright?"

"Well, I'll drive my fuckin' self if you're so worried about it. Jesus." I laughed at my big brother's dramatics. Buffalo Grove was literally a suburb of Chicago. It was a forty-minute drive, at most and in the late morning of a Monday, it would probably be less, and he was acting like we had to cross state lines.

I locked my front door and headed to my Audi, where I immediately stopped in my tracks. "You've gotta be shitting me."

"What?"

"I have a fucking flat!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, girl. Come on!"

"What?! Like I did it on purpose?!" I cried. "I haven't been in this car for almost two weeks. I so totally got a flat on purpose."

"I'll come get you."

"Okay..." My voice trailed off as I circled my car. "Oh shit."

"What now?"

"Shayne... I think somebody did this..."

"What do you mean? How would you know that?"

"Because ALL of my tires are flat," I answered. I could hear the fear in my own voice, and it only worsened when I arrived on the passenger side, the word SLUT carved into the car's previously unmarked black paint. "Oh my God..."